Fun Hunting Fact: If you miss your tom, you can't have your picture taken with him

Well, it’s been four seasons since the last swing-and-miss, perhaps it was just time to settle with the Hunting Gods for my good fortune. And this particular incident Sunday morning was not nearly as egregious as back then. That pitiful year will endure until old age kindly robs me of memory. As painful as it is to recall, I whiffed on three birds, all within 20 yards, all easily killable. All hunts accompanied by a healthy dose of profanity afterwards. Only one did I actually ground with a second shot, the smallest of the bunch, a puny jake.

Folks always wonder how a person could miss a turkey with a shotgun. The standard issue reply from those in the know is, “If you’ve not missed a turkey, you’ve not hunted them long enough.”

The debacle of 2010 occurred because of equipment malfunction – the rear sight on my Mossberg 835 was torqued and I didn’t notice it. I had patterned the gun before the season per usual, but it somehow bent out of shape afterwards. At close range, the shot pattern was sailing by the toms’ heads. The sight eventually fell off, and since I remedied the issue all’s been hunky-dory since. This time it didn’t fail me, I failed it.

After a silent Saturday morning sit, I wasn’t quite prepared to abandon this gem of a location, a pair of oak trees in a small clearing that sat on a slight rise amid several acres of 10-year planted pines. Surrounding this were cypress swamp bottoms in which the Osceolas roost. What I’ve noticed in the past is the birds fly down into the swamps then wander into the pines to strut, feed, etc. My issue with this spot, however, would be trying to pinpoint where the turkey would emerge. Lots of turkey. Lots of potential. Lots of contemplating on how to make it work.

My faith rewarded Sunday morning, this gobbler sounded off in the one chink in my armor. I had situated myself facing north against one oak that was naturally blinded by sparse scrub oaks. For a swamp gobbler, he was awfully turned on but arrived from the south. Without being able to re-position without spooking him, I had to twist all the way around in my seat and peer through the tiny oaks to watch him strut and spit and gobble no more than 30 yards away. He came into such the worst spot he could that he was unable to catch sight of the decoys I had flanked to either side of me to lure in any incomers from that direction.

The tom – sporting a nice rope – finally tired of strutting and gobbling and spitting and worked his way west. I figured he might have had some hens with him at some point in the morning, because he was none too anxious about coming further up the ridge to investigate. As he turned to move down into the adjacent head of pines, I quietly shifted the Mossberg around hoping to get a shot at him, but he descended into the dark where he sat and gobbled for another 10 or 15 minutes, not moving.

Let me tell you, this bird had unnerved me. I knew I had probably missed my chance. He wasn’t getting any farther away but certainly wasn’t marching to Certain Death, either. Then I heard the hen yelp. Within a minute, a line of ten emerged from that bottom filing back south, over a hump and shortly into memory. Homeboy was tagging right along in full strut. It was then or never, I figured.

Now, I’m right-handed. Usually anything off my left shoulder is deader than fried chicken. With the rise and fall of the terrain and the shot angle I had, this tom was more left-of-the-small-of-my-back. Sitting in a low-slung fold-out chair, I had to crouch down, bend forwards and contort muscles I’ve not had flexibility in since touch football. In my Mind’s Eye I didn’t have the bead down enough when I squeezed the trigger. Certainly I was in a rush – I had 11 sets of eyeballs peering at me by this point. Rushing never helps anything.

So, the bird escaped unscathed to strut, spit, and gobble another day. Which brings me to the point – it’s pretty easy to miss a turkey. If you don’t pay attention to your equipment it can happen. If you take a stupid shot – and of which I’ve taken many – it will certainly happen.

EPILOGUE: That bird twisted me around so badly – from trying to keep an eye on him behind me to taking that shot – that when I hopped up to see if I’d even cut a feather, I walked about 5 steps and my back gave out. My back – and I need to check to see if Mom and Dad are actually close cousins and may be the cause of this – is fragile. I had to lay in those pines for several minutes, not only writhing in pain but with the agony of the recent incident repeating itself in my head. It was the first time I’ve ever considered calling someone to come get me out of the woods. Eventually, I did get up and staggered out of the woods like Willem Dafoe at the end of Platoon. That was the worst defeat I’ve suffered while hunting.

About This Blog

Ian Nance is a lifelong resident of Central Florida with a passion for hunting and just about anything related. Associate Member of the Florida Outdoor Writers Association. Check back weekly for hunting stories, news, tips, and wild game recipes. Feel free to leave comments or e-mail topics you would like to see addressed here. Contact at inance880@aol.com or follow on Twitter @good_hunt